


Sandalwood

by Nymm_at_Night



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dorks in Love, Dorky Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I'm bad with titles I'm so sorry, Im amazed I wrote Jeremy Heere having heterosexual PIV sex too, Jeremy's scars, Light BDSM, Massage, Penis In Vagina Sex, Post-Squip, Praise Kink, Riding, Shakespeare allusions and Jeremy and Christine being nerds, Snowed In, Stagedorks, Try it! Try it! Sam I am!, You do not like stagedorks and ham?, cheere, possessiveness kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 15:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12609872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymm_at_Night/pseuds/Nymm_at_Night
Summary: Jeremy and Christine enjoy a blizzard, tea, and each other's company. A massage with a happy ending.





	Sandalwood

**Author's Note:**

> May I offer you a porn in this trying time?

When Christine wakes up, there’s ice on her window sill and big fat snowflakes drifting down onto the branches of the trees. It’s absolutely freezing too, the first real cold snap of the year, and she lies in bed until her alarm goes off a second time. She winces when she swings her legs out of bed and onto the floor because, he wood is practically ice from the draft creeping in under her window, which is honestly just the worst.

Sub zero temperatures or not, there’s only a few inches, and there’s no real black ice, so Middleborough isn’t afforded the boon of a snow day.

Still, it’s fun to kick the drifts on her way down to the bus stop and crack the icicles off the pine trees to lick, because fuck the police, if nature didn’t intend for icicles to be eaten, she wouldn’t have made them look like popsicles.

The school is swelteringly warm compared to her apartment and the bus, the fans rumbling in the background in a constant thrum. It’s kind of nice, or at least Jeremy seems to think so, considering the way he leans against the radiator as he trades barbs with Michael on the opposite side of the room.

Christine knows it’s a little weird to stare at them like this, considering that Jeremy’s her boyfriend, and Michael is definitely up there on the echelon of friendship, but whatever. It’s kind of fun to peak over the edge of her book and steal glances at him, quietly consigning the way his face is pressed against the metal to memory, along with his little smile whenever Michael says something particularly funny.

She smiles at him, and he catches her eye and grins back and—

Then the lights go out.

There’s a long moment in semi darkness where the whole class goes silent, twenty two pairs of eyes flicking to the study hall teacher. She sighs, glares out the window at the snow, and the whole class erupts into whispers.

It takes five minutes for Jenna’s word-of-mouth-of-phone grapevine to hear from a freshman who spoke with Mrs. Duke who heard from a janitor that a tree branch fell on the wires connecting a transformer on the next block over. It takes another ten minutes for the beleaguered teachers to announce that they’re canceling school for the rest of the day and that buses will be arriving shortly.

Christine has never been happier to be at risking a cold, albeit not lonely, death at school.

“So, uh, are we still on for tonight?” Jeremy asks as he zips up his backpack. Most of the class has already dashed into the halls, like some sort of adolescent Running of the Bulls, but Christine isn’t really worried about missing their ride. The buses always stay long enough, or at least she’s learned to run fast enough to catch them.

Christine couldn’t tamp down her grin if she tried. “Heck yeah!”

Michael, on the other side of the table, smiles at them with the vague, yet distinct vibe of a parent seeing their child going to school for the first time. It’s stupid, but Christine wonders if he knows how much his approval means to her. She’s never had that sort of close, decade spanning friendship, hell, _partnership_ that Michael and Jeremy have, and she can’t even imagine what having some random third person intruding on that dynamic is like, but Michael’s been supportive, and honestly, it means more to her than Mr. Heere’s acceptance.

They don’t miss the bus on the way out, but Christine does slip on a patch of ice and slide into a railing, arms flailing like a pinwheel. Jeremy drops everything to keep her from crashing her skull against the metal, and his coffee cup of lukewarm tea goes everywhere, and by everywhere she means almost entirely onto Jeremy. They actually do end up having to run to catch her bus, and barely make it on before it pulls out of the lot.

Jeremy sits next to her, shivering against her side— the cardigan ended up being totally soaked, but the tee shirt underneath, the one with the adorable rainbow cat on it, was at least salvageable. She does her best to warm him up, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders and dragging him down so he can rest his head against her shoulder. It’s comfortable enough despite the cramped seats, and it’s got the pleasant side effect of hiding the vaguely uncomfortable looks of the other people on the bus from him.                                                                                                                                                   

Christine resists the urge to stick her tongue out at them. Barely. It’s a free country, and she has a boyfriend, and she can cuddle the shit out of him if she hecking wants to. Beside, somebody has to keep him from freezing to death until she can drag him inside and stick him under an electric blanket. She’s got a vague idea of some sort of Disney marathon, or maybe seeing if they can hunt down some niche bootleg to watch, because if the school district and the forces of nature have deigned to give her four extra hours of free time, she sure as hell isn’t doing anything useful with it.

It takes her far too long to realize that that plan has a pretty horrible snag in it. She should have probably noticed that all of the lights in the apartment complex are off, or that there's no tell tale haze of steam coming out of the vents, but Jeremy’s laced their fingers together and that’s way more distracting than it should be. It’s only when she unlocks the front door, Jeremy’s wet cardigan balanced on one arm, and reaches for the light switch only to find it totally inert, that she realizes three things in the following order.

  1. There is a transformer that broke near the school.
  2. Christine lives four blocks from Middleborough High.
  3. Therefore, the blackout that is affecting the school, _must be affecting her house._



“The power’s out,” She says dumbly, blinking at the dark living room. “Darn.”

She glances at Jeremy, who looks white enough in the darkness to be one of those ghost hoaxes. Maybe one of the spooky corpse brides or something. “Shit.”

Christine brushes off the way he holds her hand tighter as she turns on the stove, listening to the _click click click fwooph_ of the burner. Tea is probably, definitely, certainly a good idea. She pushes him onto the nearest chair while the water heats up, and fishes around in the cupboards for some tea. They’re a mess, so the pot’s already hissing by the time she pulls out the box.

She’s careful pouring the two steaming mugs of hot water, and once she’s set the pot into the sink to steam, she drops the two blocks of tea in. It’s the good kush— fancy, powdered ginger and tea pressed together and candied in brown sugar, then broken into discreet little chunks. She’s been saving it for a special occasion since she brought back from China the last time she visited her grandma, but Jeremy is a special occasion, so there’s no time like the present. She pours a little milk into the cups so they don’t have to wait an eternity to drink it, and presses a mug into Jeremy’s hands.

He wraps his fingers tight around the ceramic and smiles softly the whole way to her room. It’s not too dark in there, more of a pleasant twilight. The windows let in enough light through the blinds that she doesn’t need to find a lamp or something, which is a bit of a blessing, considering how much of a mess the closets are.

She settles on the bed, and pats the spot next her. Jeremy’s face is red as he sits on the horrifically enlarged visage of Gerard Butler. The Phantom of the Opera bedspread was a well intentioned gift from an aunt with absolutely no knowledge of theater, but if Christine’s being honest, she’s not crazy about it. The film adaptation was a bit of a travesty, and now that she has an actual boyfriend who she actually has had sex with, the prospect of doing it under the watchful, voyeuristic eye of the Phantom invokes a deep, subtle horror that gnaws at her mind when she lies awake at night.

Admittedly, Aunt Tabitha may have meant it more as birth control than bedding.

“So, I was thinking we could do a little bit of rehearsal? I mean, we’ve got all this time, and the power’s out, and it’s not like we’re going to have actual rehearsal today, so it seems like a good way to keep up!” She chirps at him as he breathes across the top of his steaming mug. It’s the novelty one shaped like an octopus that Ruby adopted on a trip to Florida, and there’s a certain peace to having him here like this, sitting on her bed and drinking her tea from her cups. It’s domestic. It’s nice.

Jeremy nods and winces a little as reaches one handedly into his backpack, crinkling the papers around until he pulls out the thick packet. “Sure, that’s— that’s great. Uh, do you wanna do Act 4 Scene 5?”

Christine nods, because playing Ophelia’s descent into madness is taxing and she hasn’t quite managed to get it right, and with Jeremy as Laertes, things have been a little… odd. Not bad, they definitely have chemistry on stage, but the role reversal always feels strange, and the fact that they’re playing siblings makes things kind of weird. She still has nightmares about the time Mr. Reyes shouted at them in the middle of practice to “Stop turning this into Alabama’s Hamlet! No incest, you two!”

Jeremy lets her scoot closer, so she can look on with the script if she forgets a line, and they begin.

Christine’s good at theater. She’s good at drama and acting and taking the little cues from her scene partners and putting that into her reactions, and the cadence of her voice so that the scene goes from memorized lines to a conversation. That isn’t bragging, it’s just a simple fact of life. Theater’s like breathing, natural and easy, but way funner than the usual pattern of inhale and exhale.

Christine’s not good at listening. She’s terrible at slowing down and taking notes on what people say, and the small stuff, like the fact that when Rich or Jeremy say “sure” instead of “yes” it’s not agreement, but just them going along with it. That isn’t low self esteem, it’s just a simple fact of life. Understanding people without them spelling things out is a puzzle. There’s no sparknotes guide to understanding the motives and nuances of actual human beings.

Still, she’s working on it, trying to take a moment as Jeremy launches into a monologue to dissect the way he’s stiff, and not in a bad performance way, in a he-isn't-bending-forward-like-he-usually-does way, how his lips twitch down between lines, and how half the time he’s staring at the space between Christine’s brows instead of her eyes.

Jeremy’s doing that thing again. He’s getting… foggy.

Christine knows that she’s probably going to never get the whole story of what went down in junior year. You can’t just open people up like a script and learn their entire life story, and she’s pretty sure Jeremy doesn’t want her to know it all. She understands enough, though. The pill, the SQUIP, he took it for, well not entirely for her, but enough, and it hurt him, dragged him through the mud and tore the kid who’d walked into school on the first day of junior year with ballpoint drawings on his sneakers to pieces.

She knows he was willing to let it keep ripping him up like old newsprint if it meant she could be free. She keeps that knowledge close to her chest, like a gun. It scares her a little, how close she came to being dragged into a shiny happy hivemind, and the fact that Jeremy was willing to all but die to keep that from happening. It’s a high bar to live up to, relationship-wise.

Still, sometimes when she’s alone, with only her racing, mad gigantic thoughts for company, she takes it out, examines it, and lets it remind her that even if she never lives up to all she’s meant to be, at least he’ll be there. Even if it’s a little threatening, it makes her feel safe.

“This nothing's more than matter,” Jeremy says, and while his face is the picture of bereavement and resignation, his voice is a little pinched.

“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance,” Christine replies, doing her best to hit that sort of ephemeral insanity Mr. Reyes wants. “Love, remember: and there is pansies. That's for thoughts.”

“A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance—” Jeremy says, leaning forward to press his face into his hands, but cutting off as he winces. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

Jeremy grimaces. “Uh, aches. I can keep going if you want, it’s not that bad, really—”

“Hey, just relax, okay?” She soothes, taking the packet from him and setting it aside. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Jer, it’s okay,” She says, taking his hand and rubbing the palm with her thumb, and then, as much as it pains her, “Theater can… wait.”

He ducks his head. “Sorry.”

“Jer,” She says gently, taking his hand. It’s calloused from helping with the sets when they aren’t needed for acting, and there's a few patches of chipped blue nail polish from the last group sleepover. She smooths her thumb over the bumps of his knuckles. “What’s wrong?”

He sighs, face screwing up as he sits up. Something heavy twists in her chest as he pulls away and leans back against the headboard. “I just, I don’t know but I think the cold weather’s making my back hurt, but it’s probably just psychosomatic and... uh, yeah.”

“Hey,” She says, and takes a deep breath, because she’s never asked about them before, “Is it the scars?”

Jeremy’s eyes go round, then he bites his lip, nods, and stares at his socks. Christine swallows thickly, feeling a distinct sense of unease. The scars are sort of an open secret, something that everyone’s seen at some point or another when Jeremy stretches or bends over or falls asleep with his shirt rucked up. It happens a lot since he’s so tall— most of his tees tend to be either too short or two wide, much to Chloe’s perpetual frustration. It’s not like they’re super obvious, especially since Rich is typically near by and has cornered the market on battle wounds, but she’s heard a few kids asking Jenna, who thankfully brushes them off every time.

She doesn’t know what they’re from. She’s sort of afraid to. Thinking about what that thing did to him hurts, leaves her anxious and restless with worry, because she’s so out of her depth. It’s hard for to imagine caving in to a voice like that, giving up yourself for a promise, and it scares her that he was hurting enough to listen to it. Is still hurting.

She wishes she can take that pain away, wipe away everything that happened like so much condensation on a window. She can’t, obviously, but she has to try, if only because Jeremy does so much for her in return. “I could help with them. I mean, maybe take a look, help you, uh, stretch out? Relax, and stuff?”

“Christine, I can take care of it myself,” He says, and there’s something strange in his eyes. He swallows, throat bobbing up and down. “I can take care of myself, okay?”

“Jeremy, I know. But you shouldn’t have to.” She lifts his hand and kisses his knuckles. “Let me do this for you.”

Jeremy blinks owlishly and nods as she stands up and pads down the hallway, wincing at the icy hardwood. Dad’s study is even colder than the rest of the apartment, the big window at one end letting in a persistent draft. Mom’s crystal collection is dull without the usual sun beam, but she’s not really interested in aligning Jeremy’s chakras or anything. More importantly, there’s the thing she’s looking for— the little bottle of oil at the end of the lineup, between the rose quartz and rhodonite.The glass is cold in her palm, and she does her best to warm it back up, rubbing the bottle against her shirt.

She walks back, and sits next to Jeremy again, who’s drained about half his mug by now. Christine takes it from him, setting it on the nightstand, and gives her best reassuring smile. “Shirt, please!”

Jeremy, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate too long, which she’s grateful for. She’s a little nervous about this, because she knows Jeremy doesn’t really like taking off, well, clothes in general, but his shirt especially, which is fine, because she’s happy to have him, even if he’s wearing a tee shirt when they cuddle together. Still, nerves make her even more impatient and restless, in sort of a feedback loop of jitters, so it’s a relief when he doesn’t need much coaxing to take it off. He looks over at her, hugging his bare arms and rubbing little circles over the freckles.

Christine shimmies a little bit on the bed, and catches a glimpse of the unfamiliar plane of his back, the pink, snaking lines chasing up his skin from the base of his spine. There’s a question burning on her tongue, so many questions, but she swallows them and moves closer, until their knees knock against each other. Jeremy doesn’t say anything, but lets her run the pads of her fingers down his bare back, mapping out the topography of the scars. It feels like he’s given her something precious, something vulnerable, something theirs. She holds onto that feeling like an anchor.

The clock ticks silently in the background, and Christine counts the tocks and Jeremy’s slowing breath as the minutes drag on, letting the numbers keep her still and loosen the anxious tension that’s coiled through her like a spring.

“It used to shock me.” Jeremy says after what feels like infinity, but is actually more like five minutes and thirty-eight ticks of the second hand. He isn’t looking at her. “When I didn’t do what it told me.”

Christine bites her lip. Her heart hurts a little, but it’s a distant, dull sort of ache. She doesn’t know what to say or feel or what this really means about Jeremy or how that thing changed him, and it’s moments like this that she remembers that she doesn’t really _know_ him. She knows him, but not like Michael or his father does. For her, there’s no before and after. This Jeremy is the only one she’s ever had.

She puts a comforting hand on his back, and waits with him until the bottle in her hand is warm, and she’s stopped thinking about Pavlov’s dogs and wondering what this moment would be like if there wasn’t that pill, if a different, unscarred Jeremy was sitting with her, kicking his feet off the side of the bed. Usually she fills the silence with everything she can think of, almost compulsively, but now it feels better to just sit.

“I love you Jer,” She says, finally. “No matter what. And… you didn’t deserve that. No one does.”

“Thank you... Schatz,” He says, soft, then slow, like he’s trying the taste of the pet name on his tongue.

She smiles, and pats the bedspread wordlessly. Jeremy nods, lays down on his stomach and shuffles around so he’s got his head balanced on a pillow in his folded arms. The oil is still cool when she pours a little of it into her palms, humming a little as she rubs it over her hands.

“Carrie?” Jeremy asks, halfway through the verse of And Eve Was Weak. “I didn’t know you liked that one.”

“Yeah, Jenna showed it to me the other day, and like, I don’t like some of the other students’ songs, but the In and the more gospel stuff is really interesting?” Christine says, smearing the yellow oil over her fingers. It smells nice, like sandalwood and lavender. “At least it’s better than the original Broadway run.”

Jeremy laughs, and he looks more aware, more present, than earlier. “Low bar, Christine. I thought you liked all theater? Is this… bias?”

“Jer, I like all _good_ theater, but then again, you wouldn’t know what that looks like,” She says, and the banter takes a little bit of the edge off her nerves. “Try to relax, okay?”

Jeremy nods against his arms. She goes slow at first, pressing the palms of her hands down against his shoulder blades, and Jeremy lets out a shaky breath as she eases down his back, rubbing the oil into his skin. Christine can feel how tense he is.

“Where does it hurt?” She asks, trailing her fingers down the bumps of his vertebrae.

“Base of my spine, uh— yeah, a little lower than that.”

Christine nods, and starts working her fingers down his back in little circles. The skin’s a little tougher on the scars, shiny and a little bit pinched, but she does her best to massage the oil into it. Maybe she should look into buying some scar cream for him or something, or at least an aloe vera plant. Yeah, the plant’s probably a good idea. A succulent’s about as close as you can get to a pet without a pulse, and Jeremy seems like the sort of person who’d like a pet. Maybe rats. Four of them, so he could name them after those ghosts from Pacman. Michael would like that.

She’s getting distracted again, isn’t she? She should stop that.

Jeremy’s eyes have fluttered shut, and Christine wants to push the hair that’s fallen into his face away. She doesn’t, mostly because Jeremy probably doesn’t want massage oil in his hair. What she does do is trace down the length one of his scars, like a tree branch to the trunk, right down to the waist. The muscles at the base of his back feel tight and knotted, so she bears down on him harder, pushing against the pink splotch over his lumbar where the scar tissue is thickest.

Jeremy straight up _moans_ , like something out of bad porno, and Christine can’t help the heat spreading across her face.

“Are you okay?” She asks, hoping her voice isn’t as shaky as she feels.

“Y—yeah,” Jeremy says quickly, looking up at her with one eye cracked open. “Good. Better than good.”

“Great,” She says, smiling, and smooths her hands down his back, stealing another whimper. God, teenaged hormones are wild, because this is sort of unreasonably hot. Then again, Jeremy's usually unreasonably horny, and Christine’s just plain unreasonable, so now's as good a time as any.

She lets her hands slide a little lower, rubbing at the dimples on either side of his spine. Her palms are resting on the curve of his ass, which is admittedly more bones than curves, but that’s okay, because it’d be kind of weird if Jeremy, who has the proportions of a daddy longlegs, had like, a curvy butt.

Christine should probably stop trying to apply quadratic regression to Jeremy’s ass while she’s trying to seduce him and like, try to focus on the task at hand. Underhand. Overass. Whatever.

Massaging Jeremy is nice, especially for the cute little sounds he makes when she works out a bad knot, but her fingers feel a little bit like that one time mom decided to make marzipan from scratch and duped her and dad into skinning an entire pot of boiled almonds by hand, and that’s probably as good a sign to stop as any. Jeremy looks kind of like he’s melting into the bedspread anyways.

She pulls away, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Better?”

Jeremy makes a contented noise, rolls on his side, and lifts his arm up.

Heck yeah, snuggle time.

Christine lies down on the cramped bed, and Jeremy latches on like an octopus, threading an arm around her waist and nosing his face into her hair, so at least that’s back to normal, but it really isn’t helping with the horniness.

Usually Jeremy’s the one on the inside, letting her throw her arms and legs around him, hanging on tight, like a slipper shell, but it’s sort of nice like this. The fact that he’s shirtless throws her a little. He’s warmer than usual and smells like massage oil and deodorant and something minty and kind of like toothpaste, and the smooth plane of his chest against her back feels nice and safe.

“Thank you,” He says, not quite low enough to be a whisper, but definitely enough to feel intimate. His breath feathers the shell of her ear and the nape of neck.

She shivers, and not just because of the cold. She can feel his hard-on pressed against her, mostly because she’s wiggled back so that she isn’t falling off the bed, and god, she sort of wants him to fuck her raw, and she’s about 98% sure the feeling’s mutual, and at this point it’s just the two of them dancing around who’s going to say it first.

“So,” Christine says, steepling her fingers in front of her nose, because she’s never been great at choreography and has absolutely no patience and no filter either. Besides, you only get to be a horny teenager once, so waiting for chumps. “We should bang. Do the nasty. Walk the dead girl.”

Jeremy makes a weird, strangled noise, his face knocking gently against the back of her head.

“What?” Christine huffs, waving her hand out at the empty room. “I’m just saying, my parents aren’t going to be back from work for like, ages. We should take it under consideration.”

“ _Walk the dead girl?_ ”

“Jeremiah Heere, do not act like you’re not a massive Heathers stan.”

“Okay, okay,” He laughs, pulling her closer. “But really? Are you going to ask me to sign your cast next? Baptize me?”

“Do the horizontal tango?”

“Hide in the bushes?”

“Naked wrestling?”

“Christine, it’s rude to talk about what Jake and Rich do behind close doors,” Jeremy deadpans, and that sends her into a laughing fit bad enough she’s squirming in his arms.

“Really though,” She says, still giggling a little. “Are you like, down? With the clown?”

“Christine, only if you promise never to refer to yourself as that ever again.”

“Jerk.”

Christine pulls her keyring from her pocket and stretches out one arm to the nightstand to fiddle with the lock, too lazy to get out of bed. Call her paranoid, but it’s not like the triplets don’t try their best to get into everything she owns, and she doesn’t need them finding anything… incriminating.

Like the condoms she’s passing Jeremy. That had been a fascinating and informative, and for Jeremy, apparently mortifying, trip to the local sex shop. In hindsight, putting on a strap on and trying to do windmills was probably a bit much, but she doesn’t really regret it.

Jeremy pulls away a bit, and she sits up enough to see him unzipping his fly, and yeah, that’s a really good idea actually. Christine stands up, resists the urge to groan about the cold air and lack of warm blankets, and slips her pants down her legs as quick as possible and—

God damn it. Gerard Butler’s fleecy, menacing visage is staring at her crotch, and she really doesn’t need a blanket judging her choice in underwear.

“Hey, Jer, get up,” She says, because the Phantom can suck it, okay? It’s not like she was planning to have sex today, and kelly green briefs are totally acceptable, and she doesn’t need this sort of negativity in her life.

Jeremy looks confused, but shrugs and stands, jeans down around his thighs. He’s hard, but Jeremy’s boner is going to have to wait until this demon is exorcised.

Christine rips the fleece blanket off the bed harshly enough that she can see the mattress get dragged another inch away from the wall, and hecking yeets the fabric at the wall.

Jeremy looks at her, looks at the crumpled blanket on the floor, then back at her. “Wha— I mean, why did you do that?”

“It’s weird! I don’t want stupid movie Phantom staring at us while we bang!” She says, because this feels pretty obvious, but it could just be a Christine thing? “It’s not even the hot Phantom! I have standards!”

Those standards are admittedly fairly low, but hey, they _exist._

Jeremy shrugs, red faced. “I mean I guess? I’m kind of used to it… because… Keanu…”

He trails off, red faced and gesturing vaguely at the empty pink chair in the corner. “Yeah, I’m going to shut up about that.”

Christine blinks, and— “Oh my god. That thing’s just… sitting there? In my chair?”

“Yes? I mean it’s not really there it just, uh, looks like it’s there?”

“And it follows you around, like, _all_ the time?”

Jeremy sighs and runs a hand down his face. “Yes.”

Christine has a brief moment of self reflection, because wow, the constant presence of a third wheeling, maniacal, voyeuristic supercomputer being part of the metaphorical and literal package is not actually below her standards. Then she files that dubious bit of information away for another day, and helps slide Jeremy’s pants down to his ankles. She throws them, along with her underwear at the blanket on the floor. Clothing has officially been sexiled. All is as it should be.

She leans in, grins, and plants a kiss on Jeremy’s cheek. “Let’s give that asshole a show.”

Jeremy nods vigorously. Christine’s never seen him as scarlet as he is now, his face and ears bright red as she pushes him back onto the bed.

The first time they really tried making out had been… less than stellar. Christine had accidentally bitten down hard enough to draw a _really_ concerning amount of blood, and Jeremy had poked her in the eye with his nose, and generally it was the sort of thing that would never be spoken of outloud again, for fear of Jenna overhearing and lording it over the two of them for the next bajillion years, but hey! Practice makes perfect.

Christine and Jeremy have practiced.

A lot.

Enough for him to know to swipe his tongue across her lips _just like that, god,_ and for Christine  to know just how much it winds him up when she breaks away for a second to see him looking up at her, eyes more black than blue, then swoop back in to bite at his ear.

Christine knows she’s being handsy, with one palm on his waist and her other pressed against his back, but she can’t help it. Even if Jeremy’s okay with this now, she knows him well enough that next time— it makes her heart swell to know that there’s _going_ to be a next time— the shirt will probably be back, and that’s okay, if a little disappointing. That just means she has to memorize every inch of his chest now rather than later.

She climbs up onto the bed, so that she’s straddling his hips, and leans in, her hand nearly falling off the bed when she puts it out to catch herself. Her twin sized bed is way too small for two people, but fuck it, she feels too desperate and empty to even consider moving.

Jeremy’s head falls back as she grazes her teeth down his neck, and she loves how open he looks like this, breathing heavy as he slides his hands under her shirt to cup her breasts. His nails scrape gently against her nipples, and _god_ , that’s unfair. Then again, it’s an excuse for revenge. It’s so easy to trace her fingers down his sternum and push him flat against the mattress to bite dark bruises and teeth marks across his chest.

She knows what Jeremy wears: button downs sometimes, but mostly nerdy tee shirts under cardigans. She knows that all it would take for everyone to see the purple hickies for his collar to slip down just a fraction of an inch, and then they'd all have something much better to look at than what’s on his back. She knows that all the marks are low enough on his neck that he could hide the necklace of bruises with a turtleneck.

She knows he won’t— he’s a good boy.

She breaks away from the mark she’s been biting into the soft skin of his hips, and inches back up so she can look him in the eye. He goes in for a kiss, but she puts a hand on his chest, light enough that he could move if he wanted to. “I want to ride you, Jeremy.”

He nods, licking his lips, and she slides back onto her heels so he can poke through the tangled blanket for wherever the condom’s slid off to. After a minute of searching and shaking the sheets, it turns out it’s fallen between the mattress and the wall. She fishes it out and hands it to him, watching intently and tracing little circles on his freckled thighs as he pulls his underwear down around his thighs and rolls on the latex.

She leans down when he’s finished to kiss him one more time, reaching between them to stroke his length. Jeremy moans into the kiss, hands coming up to cup the back of her head. She could stay like this forever, she thinks, except for the aching need coiled in her gut.

After a moment, she pulls away with equal parts disappointment and excitement, and shifts so her legs bracket Jeremy’s hips.

Jeremy yelps as she sinks down, a little too fast and a little too rough. Christine winces as she bottoms out on him, but god, at least she feels full, his cock pressing into her _just right._

“Are you okay?” She asks, and she can’t even be bothered to feel embarrassed about rough her voice sounds right now.

Jeremy nods like a drinking bird, eyes glassy and his lips parted. Christine takes his hands from where they’re resting on her hips and pushes them above his head, gentle enough that he could break free, but firm enough she knows he’ll keep them there.

Christine rolls her hips experimentally, relaxing into the penetration and smiling as Jeremy gasps and whimpers. She starts slow, easing up a little and then going back down, picking up the pace from languid to four fourths time. The achey slide of pleasure is intoxicating, and she can’t help but whine as he presses into her.

Jeremy’s rambling something underneath her, breaking off into low, obscene moans every time she slows down long enough to nearly pull away and let him slip out, before snapping her hips back down, hard enough she sees stars. God, she loves this— being able to look down at him under her, so vulnerable and willing, every hickie and bruise marking him as hers. She cants her hips and Jeremy’s eyes flutter shut, his head lolling to the side as he groans something between her name and a curse. It’s adorable.

“Hey,” She soothes, brushing his cheek with her thumb. “Eyes on me.”

Jeremy blinks up at her, mouth open in a pant, and she smiles, brushing the hair out of his eyes and never once letting up the rhythm. She’s so close, but it’s not enough.

“Touch me,” She commands. Jeremy nods eagerly, and the way he jumps to obey, spreading her open with his thumb and index finger, sends shivers down her spine. It’s good, it’s so freaking good, and Jeremy’s always had clever fingers, and with the sharp burst of pleasure as she thrusts her hips back down, it’s almost too much.

Christine bucks, hard, searching for more pressure, more girth, everything Jeremy’s willing to give, and desperation makes the steady rhythm she’s built up falls to pieces. His fingers press against her clit, rubbing little circles, and it’s just overwhelming. Everything’s warm and bright as he rolls his hips, pushing into her deeper, harder. She falls forward, bracing herself with an arm by his head as he fucks into her. Every thrust leaves her gasping his name and clenching tight around him, pleasure building and building, and then she comes. It leaves her shaking, her knees feeling like jelly, but she can’t stop now. Jeremy’s been such a good boy, and she can see how his hands are twitching above his head, hungry for any contact.

She takes them, smoothing her thumb across the planes of his hands as he holds on with a vice grip. Jeremy keens as he comes, squirming obscenely underneath her as he rides out the orgasm. She leans in, lapping at his lips. He props himself up on one wobbly arm, and kisses back. It’s a little funny how chaste it is, no teeth or tongue, all things considered.

After a long moment, she pulls away and gingerly gets off of him, whining a little as he slides out. The emptiness is disappointing, and she could probably go another round, but Jeremy looks pretty spent, and her family’s probably going to be back soon, which is like, not ideal?

That should probably inspire some sort of panic and scramble to clean up, but Christine takes her time as they go through the usual post coital routine. Wet wipes are distributed, the condom is thrown out, and Christine grabs an old sundress from her bureau so she can go and crack open the window to air out the smell of sweat and sex without flashing the neighborhood.

She sits back down next to him. He’s pulled his jeans back on, and she offers him a baggy “I <3 Broadway” shirt, less to cover the scars and more to cover the ridiculous number of hickies. “So, you good?”

Jeremy smiles and worms into the tee, and Christine is only a little sad about it. “Yeah. That was great. Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it,” She laughs, pushing him down onto the bed for the second time that day. Jeremy makes a confused noise, but relaxes when she cuddles up to him, throwing one leg over his thigh. “I like doing things for you. I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”

She folds her arms around his chest, presses her face against the uneven skin, and takes him as he is.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all are writing horror and corpses, and I show up 2 days late with more fucking Stagedorks porn. I swear, I have wips that aren't Jeremy and Christine fucking, including a semi sequel to Digital Bond- trashy_chocolate, get fucking hyped- but this is what I wrote.  
> Goddammit.  
> Anyways, comments are life, as are kudos, so maybe type me one? Thanks for reading!


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